Angel
by tony blair
Summary: This is real life, none of that fairy tale stuff


The clock read 7:30; as always at this time, she rose. She needed no alarm for she barely slept, and besides, the man next door always ensured she was awake by his continuous singing; perhaps a little out of tune in parts; to whatever happened to be on the radio at that time in the morning. Opening the door, she left the dull grey room, which had nothing to adorn it but the creaking bed and antique, but not in a good way, chest of drawers.

The pale sun shining through the grimy window, which overlooked the street and buildings below, dimly lit the living and kitchen area. For the fairly large room, there was only one word that would describe it, blank. And that word covered the empty walls, the lack of furniture, and the absence of life and emotion that it held. The girl turned immediately, as if this was a routine, to the brown patched sofa and coffee table that lay before it, upon it were several empty wine bottles. Promptly, she disposed of these and bent down to look in the fridge. If she was hoping for a large, nutritious breakfast then she would have been ever so slightly disappointed, but she was not for she new exactly what was in there as it never changed. That was nothing. Well, apart from a rather random bottle cap, a furry chip (?) and a McDonalds Big Mac wrapper. She rinsed out a glass, filled it with quite disturbingly cloudy water from the tap and drank it. Then returned to her room and bathroom to get ready.

She emerged later; having replaced the faded pink pyjamas with a mud splattered school uniform. After gathering up her schoolbooks she had one final job to do before she left, the one she always dreaded because she knew what would happen.

"Mom" She shook her gently. "Mom?" But still no response. She tried again, raising her voice a little higher. "It's time to get up, you've got to be in work soon."

"No, stop it! Don't make me go, I'm not well, what you wakin' me up at this time for? You're always pissin' doin' this, just leave me alone!" And with that, she pulled the quilt back over her head and turned away from her daughter who left the room.

A few streets away from their flat, a gang of chavs stood on a corner, smoking and making crude jokes. The girl held her head down and concentrated on the floor as she passed them, hoping to get past unnoticed.

"Hey!" A can flew past her head. "You!" A leg appeared in front of her but despite her watching the floor like a mother watches her children, she failed to notice it until too late. As she lay on the floor she felt a foot firmly imprint itself on her back, and another kick her in the ribs. "You tramp, get off the floor, just cuz your mom's a prozzy don't mean you 'ave to act like her." She righted herself and hastily walked away from the scene though she could still hear them calling after her in the next street.

The school gates, at least, meant she had escaped from them, but the black iron didn't give off the feeling of freedom that well. The girl did not dislike school, but she wasn't a big fan either, she knew that she had no choice in whether she went or not, so she went.

She sat at a desk near the front of the classroom, her expression giving away none of her true feelings. She was confused, Mrs Bird was writing these numbers, these symbols, upon the board and talking about them, what they meant, but to her they meant nothing, they were just, plainly, ink. Glancing around at the rest of the class they appeared to be taking in what they were being shown, and copying it down, apart from the few at the back who quite clearly were more interested in the girl in front of them, and pinging her bra strap. A while later, the teacher, having expected them all to have understood, wrote equations on the board for people to come up and do. The girl sat there, watching others, but inside knowing that she would have to go up to the front and her hands sweating profusely from her knowledge of this. And, as of course was the case, she was finally chosen. She stood there, the pen slipping in her hand, gazing helplessly up at the mass of numbers and letters in front of her. She waited, though she knew not what for. She could hear the class growing restless, some sniggers, a clock ticking the everlasting seconds past and someone drumming their fingers.

"You can begin, you know." The teacher's voice sounded confused also, why hadn't the girl started?

"I… I know Miss, it's just…" The girl stammered as she tried to explain.

"What?" She sounded exasperated. "You don't understand what it do you?"

"N… No Miss."

"Have you not been listening to a word I have been saying?"

"I have Miss, honestly, I… I just don't know what it all means Miss." And despite the teacher's efforts to talk her through it, the class's laughing got louder, and in the end they had to give up. The girl rushed out of the room, red faced, embarrassed at her own stupidity.

Lunch hour was spent by herself, apart from the passing groups who chose to hurl abuse her way. The afternoon held little interest, just more shame as the topic of the upcoming school trip came up. The girl could not afford the cost and trusted that this would not arouse any attention. Unfortunately that was not to be as the teacher informed her, amid laughter, that the council would provide money, as they were aware of her situation.

Arriving back at the flat, the girl fully expected it to be locked, and she was not wrong. What she did not expect was to have to wait around until 2 am to be let in by her drunken mother accompanied by a similarly drunken man. While her mother was in the bathroom, and the girl was drawing the curtains, this man approached her. At first he was just running his hands over her, but then his hands crept under her clothes, he was pulling and pushing her breasts, but not gently as a lover may do, this was more violent. They then slipped down, one to her ass and the other further round; he was biting her neck and pushing her up against the wall. And then her mother walked back in, too drunk to notice him jumping quickly off her daughter, or her daughter's tears as she ran past to her bedroom, pushing the chest of drawers firmly up against the door.


End file.
